“I’m goin’ to make a trip to Gunsight, Jake.”
“Thasso? Whatfer?”
“Business. Leavin’ pretty soon.”
Jake Blue got to his feet and walked to the door, where he turned and
squinted at Easton.
“What in ---- do I care where you go? I’m gittin’ sick of havin’
eve’thing goin’ wrong all the time. If we’re goin’ to let that
long-geared coyote run this country, let’s both go and give him room.
We ain’t a ---- bit better off ’n we was.”
“Takes time, Jake.” Easton’s tone was conciliatory.
Blue masticated viciously.
“Where’s Doc goin’ to bury Quinn?”
“I dunno, but I think Doc’s goin’ to start a new graveyard with Quinn.
Said he’d picked out a spot back of town. Is that Hashknife person
still here?”
“---- him; I suppose so. If I was you I’d sneak out the back way,
Spot--if you want to git away safe-like.”
Jake Blue slammed the door behind him and went down the big room,
half-grinning to himself. At least it was some satisfaction to goad
Spot Easton, who was losing prestige about as fast as possible.
Easton’s reputation had been earned, but he seemed to be running into a
series of hard-luck and mistakes. Jake Blue also felt that the god of
luck had deserted him, but he blamed everybody except himself. He went
out of the front door and ran into Doc Clevis.
“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” stated Clevis. “What happened to you,
Jake? Was you afraid to produce that rifle?”
Blue cursed solemnly and told the doctor what he had told Spot Easton.
Doc Clevis removed his hat and polished his bald head with his palm.
“Somebody,” declared the doctor, “stole them guns.”
“Didja think they walked away?” Blue said sarcastically, and added--
“Where’d Skelton and them two longhorns go to?”
Doc Clevis did not know. He was dry, and he offered to buy a drink, but
Jake Blue refused.
“You better let me look you over,” said the doctor. “Any time you
refuses a drink, you’re sick.”
Jake Blue turned wearily away from the doctor and went toward the
office. Spot Easton went to the livery-stable and in a few minutes he
came out driving a tall, bay horse hitched to a top-buggy. He drove to
the sheriff’s doorway, where Blue leaned dejectedly.
“I’m goin’ to Gunsight,” said Easton.
“You’ve got my consent,” grunted Blue, and as Easton drove out of town
he added, “I hope t’ ---- you run off a grade and never hit bottom.”
* * * * *
Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton had left town immediately following the
inquest. Hashknife was standing in the ranch-house doorway when Easton
drove past, headed for Gunsight--the terminus of a branch railroad.
Easton did not look toward the house, but Hashknife recognized him.
“There goes the foreman of the 88, Skelton,” he said.
“Th’ son-of-a-rooster!” grunted Skelton. “He’s done read that letter
and he’s goin’ to meet her in Gunsight.”
Easton disappeared around a curve in a cloud of dust, and Hashknife
rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“How far’s it to Gunsight?”
“Thirty miles--about.”
“Huh!” Hashknife cogitated deeply. “If she comes in tonight, he’ll
likely make the return trip with her.”
“Danged lonesome ride at night,” observed Skelton.
Sleepy came up from the corral and sat down on the steps.
“What’s the matter, long feller?” he asked as he noticed Hashknife’s
thoughtful expression.
“That’s what Easton likely wants,” mused Hashknife, ignoring Sleepy’s
question. “A feller don’t lie in a letter without havin’ some kind of
an ax to grind.”
“Lemme in on it, will you?” asked Sleepy.
“Spot Easton just went past in a top-buggy, and he’s headin’ for
Gunsight.”
“That’s good. I reckon we can get along without him.”
“But,” said Hashknife slowly, “you gotta figure that the girl’s only
eighteen years old. She won’t _sabe_ Spot Easton.”
“I dunno much about human nature,” said Sleepy, “but I do know danged
well that I’m hungry. Don’t we ever eat on this new job, Bliz?”
“Y’betcha,” grinned Skelton. “I’m goin’ t’ rustle some bull-beef and
bakin’-powder biscuits right now. I was just wonderin’ why that rifle
never showed up at the inquest.”
“Did your rifle have any mark on it, Skelton?”
“I dunno. I sure as ---- couldn’t identify it.”
“Thassall right then,” grinned Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy examined ’em
all before we sunk ’em in the crick--they all looked alike to us.”
Skelton scratched his head violently and squinted at Hashknife.
“You--uh--oh ----, yes! I know what you mean now. Top-hands,
y’betcha--yes sir.”
Skelton went into the house and in a few moments he was busy with
biscuit-dough, while Sleepy and Hashknife humped up on the steps and
manufactured cigarets.
“Thirty miles to Gunsight,” observed Hashknife. “Right pretty little
ride.”
“Yeah, it is,” admitted Sleepy.
“She sure is, Sleepy; nice li’l ride. We’ll saddle up as soon as we
folds the stummick around a little provender.”
“Saddle up?” queried Sleepy. “You ain’t----”
“We are,” corrected Hashknife.
“Aw-w!” Sleepy protested softly. “You’re the dangdest person t’ hop
into----”
“What’d you do, Sleepy?”
“Well, it ain’t our business noways, Hashknife.”
“Supposin’ Spot Easton was goin’ to meet your sister?”
“But she ain’t my sister.”
“’F you was Lonesome Lee’s son, she would be. Suppose you was, Sleepy.”
“I ain’t--not even supposin’, Hashknife.”
“Gosh a’mighty! Thirty miles! I suppose you’d go if it was sixty. Sixty
miles ain’t much.”
“I never been able to figure you out, Hashknife.” Sleepy shook his head
disconsolately. “You do the dangdest things I ever seen. Some day
you’re goin’ to horn into things what don’t concern you, and you’ll
meet a hunk of lead--face to face.
“You always kind of go out of your way to bother into other folks’
troubles. Every danged place we go you gets into some dang kind of a
mixup, and she’s always because you feel sorry fer somebody. If it was
only you I’d say for you to go to it and grab a tombstone but, blast it
all, you always drags me into it.”
Sleepy stopped for lack of breath and glared at Hashknife.
“Yes sir,” nodded Hashknife slowly, “just suppose you was a brother to
that girl. It’s thirty miles; which is some ride in the dark.”
“Hey!” yelled Skelton from the kitchen. “You jaspers like gravy with
your spuds?”
“You spoke my daily prayer,” yelled Hashknife.
Sleepy got to his feet and stretched his arms.
“I hope that train don’t get in so early that we’ll have to hold up
Spot Easton on the road. I had a sister, Hashknife, and I know what you
mean.”
* * * * *
It was nine o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Gunsight, and
the night was as dusky as the proverbial black cat. Gunsight was quite
a bit larger than Caldwell and a trifle more modern, owing to the
railroad which made it a shipping point for the surrounding country.
They dismounted at a hitch-rack and tied their horses.
“Mister Easton will likely put his horse in a stable,” stated
Hashknife. “Especially if he aims to drive back tonight. We better
kinda examine the livery-stable.”
They jingled their spurs down the sidewalk to where a lantern swung
over a wide doorway, from within which came the unmistakable odor of a
stable. Two more lighted lanterns were hung at the sides of the room to
light up the rows of stalls.
A stable-man came out of the grain-room carrying another lantern which
he placed on a backless chair near the door, and squinted at Hashknife
and Sleepy.
“Evenin’,” he grunted. Cowboys usually made the stable their
headquarters.
“Evenin’,” greeted Hashknife. “How’s business?”
“’S’all right, I reckon. The day man got drunk and I’m doin’ two
shifts. Got any Durham?”
Hashknife passed him part of a sack and he rolled a cigaret.
“Ain’t much night business, is there?” asked Hashknife.
“Naw--not much; but just enough to make me miss a date with m’ girl.
Figured to close up early, but a feller drove in a while ago, and he’s
goin’ out agin’ tonight. Naturally I’ve got to linger around here ’till
he starts travelin’ agin’. I ain’t no drinkin’ person, but whisky sure
does cause me a lot of misery.”
“Can’t he hitch his own horse?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, I reckon he could; but it ain’t hardly good business to ask a
feller to pay fer service and not git it.”
“That’s a fact,” agreed Hashknife solemnly. “We was just wonderin’ if
we could bunk in the hay t’night. I don’t admire to pay a hotel
four-bits for a chance to read my shirt the next mornin’.”
“Sure, sure. The loft’s got plenty of room, or you can sleep in the
grain-room. They’s a bunk in there and some blankets.”
“That’s right kind of you,” said Hashknife. “If we can help you-- Say,
if it ain’t too late to keep that date with your girl----”
“Whatcha mean?”
“Well, is there any reason why I can’t tend to that feller’s horse?
Ain’t no trouble to cinch a hull on a bronc. Course I wouldn’t take his
money----”
“Thassall right, I got his money in advance. It ain’t no saddle-horse,
though. If you don’t mind hitchin’ a horse to a buggy ----”
“Cinch,” grunted Hashknife. “Show me the horse and buggy, pardner.”
It took the man about a minute to point out the horse, harness and
buggy. It was the tall, bay horse which Easton had driven from
Caldwell. The stable-man was voluble in his thanks, and hurried away to
keep his date. Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at each other as they sat
down to wait for Easton’s return.
* * * * *
Blondy Hagen, following his run-in with Hashknife and Sleepy, had come
to Gunsight. His head was still sore from its crash against the
War-Bonnet bar, and he proceeded to embalm his wounded feelings in very
bad whisky.
And when Blondy got drunk, he got bad. Like an Indian warrior he sang
his own praises--until he saw Spot Easton drive in and stable his
horse. Blondy was not afraid of Spot--not in the least, but he knew
that Spot would have something to say about what happened in the
War-Bonnet.
Blondy was one of those peculiar characters whose gun was always ready
for hire, and he could still feel the weight of Spot Easton’s cash. He
really wanted to see Spot and, if possible, get more money; but he felt
that he really should do something to earn what he had already been
paid.
He weaved out of the Ten-Spot saloon and balanced himself against a
porch-post. Just to his left was a hitch-rack, partly lighted from the
Ten-Spot window. He clung to the post and puzzled over the two horses,
which looked familiar. Suddenly he remembered; and the memory caused
him to straighten up and grunt softly to himself--
“Tha’s their broncs! Whatcha know?”
Blondy gawped foolishly and grew inspired. It might be worth his while
to find Spot Easton and tell him that those two gall-laden punchers
were in Gunsight. He lurched away from the post and proceeded to cut
himself a wide trail down the sidewalk. He hadn’t the slightest idea
where Spot Easton might be found; but Blondy hadn’t the slightest idea
where he was going; so it made no difference.
He almost fell into the doorway of a restaurant as a man was coming
out--and the man was Easton. He grabbed Blondy by the shoulder to keep
him from falling, and shut the door behind him. Blondy got a glimpse of
a very pretty girl sitting at a table; and then Spot Easton shoved him
past the restaurant and into the darkness of an alley.
“What are you doin’ here, Hagen?” demanded Easton.
“Me? Leggo that arm! Whatcha think you are?”
“You know who I am,” growled Easton meaningly. “When did you come to
Gunsight?”
“Thassall right,” said Blondy drunkenly.
“Don’t paw me ’round, Spot. I was looking fer you. Mebbe you’d like to
know that them two Tombstone punchers are here.”
“Who?”
“You know; them two that kinda jiggered our play.”
“Oh!” Easton grunted softly. “What are they doin’ here?”
“I never seen ’em,” admitted Blondy, “but their broncs are tied to the
rack at the Ten-Spot, y’betcha.”
“Are you sure, Hagen?”
“Betcha I am. I know that tall roan and the blue-gray.”
Spot Easton thought rapidly. If Hashknife and Sleepy were in Gunsight,
they had a reason for coming--and he might be the reason. He suddenly
realized that they had opened and read that letter, and he swore softly
for not having thought of that before.
“Are they in the Ten-Spot?” he asked.
“Wasn’t,” Hagen replied. “I come out of there and found the horses.”
“The Ten-Spot is almost straight across the street from the
livery-stable,” mused Easton aloud. “I wonder if they--Hagen, is there
another livery-stable here?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Soapy’ Evans owns kind of a stable.”
“You want to earn your money, Hagen?”
“Tha’s me.”
“Go up to the livery-stable and find out if them two snake-hunters are
there. Don’t let ’em see you; do you understand?”
“Prob’ly git killed, if I don’t,” grunted Hagen. “Where’ll I find you?”
“I’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”
It was about two blocks to the stable, and the average was about six
saloons to a block. Hagen knew that he had won back the good graces of
his employer; so he went in and partook of good cheer. Easton fretted
in the dark and waited for a report, while Hagen weaved in and out of
the saloons; getting closer to the stable at each entrance and exit,
but also getting more cocksure of himself.
The last saloon took away every vestige of cowardice in Blondy Hagen’s
make-up. He came out, balanced on the edge of the sidewalk, while he
filled his lungs to capacity and then emitted a war-whoop that would
have shamed any Indian on earth.
He stumbled off the sidewalk, gripped his six-shooter tightly, took his
bearings from the lantern over the doorway of the stable and set sail.
He stumbled up the plank drive-way and into the dim light of the
stable, telling himself hoarsely how very great he was and how Spot
Easton depended upon him for everything. As he halted to inhale enough
breath for another declaration, a rope seemed to descend from nowhere,
tightened around his arms and body, and something threw him upside down
with a great crash.
Strong hands picked him up and carried him away, and a moment later he
felt himself hurled into space. He landed on something fairly soft,
while above him came the crash of a closing door and the rasp of a
padlock-hasp.
Hagen staggered to his feet and his head came in violent contact with
the roof, and he sat down again. After much painful effort he secured a
match and inspected his position. He peered all around, felt of his
empty holster, and cursed wickedly when the match burnt his finger.
“I’m in the oat-bin,” he told himself, “an’ I ain’t got no gun. Tha’s
pe-culiar, but ’s a fac’.”
And Blondy Hagen settled down in the oats and went to sleep, while Spot
Easton cursed savagely and wondered if Hagen had run foul of those two
unmentionable cowboys.
* * * * *
He had told Jane Lee that he was going to the livery-stable to get the
horse and buggy. Peeking into the restaurant window he saw that she was
nervously waiting his return. He prided himself on the fact that he had
made an impression on her already and he knew that--well, he owned
Lonesome Lee, and the girl did not know any one in Lodge-Pole county.
Hagen had had time to make several trips to the stable by this time.
Easton began to worry. Finally he decided to take a chance. He hurried
back into the restaurant.
“Just run into a feller who talked business, and it delayed me,” he
explained. “I reckon you might as well come along with me as to stay
here.”
He picked up her valise and led the way out to the street.
“It’s only a little ways,” he assured her, as he switched the valise to
his left hand and slid his gun loose. “She’s a nice night.”
A cowboy came out of a saloon, braced his legs wide apart, whooped
loudly and emptied his gun in the air. The girl drew back in affright,
but Easton laughed and assured her that the shots meant nothing.
“You’re goin’ to like this country after you get used to it, Jane.”
“I--I suppose so,” she faltered. “It is all so new to me, and the
houses seem so small.”
Easton said nothing. They walked up the sloping sidewalk to the door of
the stable and stopped. There was not a sound from the interior, except
horses munching hay.
Easton looked up and down the street. He could see the hitch-rack in
front of the Ten-Spot, but was unable to distinguish the color of the
horses.
“Hey!” he called. There was no response. “I suppose I’ll have to
harness my own horse,” he said to the girl.
He placed the valise on the floor and walked slowly inside. The door of
the grain room was partly open, and he peered in.
Came the dull _chuck!_ of a muffled blow and Easton disappeared inside.
The girl was watching him, and wondered how he had managed to get
inside by dragging both feet.
From inside the room came a creaking noise and a crash, as if a
bin-cover had been slammed down. Then the door opened and Hashknife and
Sleepy stepped out.
“Howdy, ma’am,” said Hashknife politely. “Are you Miss Lee?”
“Why, yes. I--I--where is Mr. Easton?”
“Easton? O-o-o-oh, yeah. He’s in the oat-bin, ma’am.”
“I do not understand you.” The girl seemed puzzled.
“Harness the horse, Sleep,” commanded Hashknife. “This lady’s got to
find a place to sleep.”
Sleepy gleefully brought out the horse and backed it into the
buggy-shafts. Jane Lee stared at the tall cowboy beside her, and
wondered at the mystery of it all.
“You drive the rig, Sleep,” ordered Hashknife. “I’ll bring your bronc
along with me.”
“But,” objected the girl, “I--I--Mr. Easton is going to take me to my
father’s ranch.”
“Was,” corrected Hashknife. “He’s goin’ to sleep with one of his hired
men tonight, so we made him let us take you home.”
Hashknife shoved the valise into the rear of the buggy and helped her
into the seat. She started to protest, but Sleepy chirped to the tall,
bay horse and they rolled hollowly out of the doorway and headed
homeward.
As Hashknife crossed to the horses, the stable-man came from down the
street and went into the stable. He had seen the top-buggy going up the
street, and he surmized that its owner had returned.
As he turned to go toward the rear he heard a muffled voice calling. He
listened closely and decided that it came from the grain-room. He
sneaked in and lighted a match. Some one was hammering on the inside of
the oat-bin. The stable-man was taking no chances. He went outside, got
a lantern, which he hung over the top of the bin, took an old shot-gun
from behind the door and flipped the fastener loose from the lid of the
bin.
A moment later the lid lifted and Spot Easton, very much disheveled,
stood up and blinked foolishly.
“Wh-whatcha doin’ in my oats?” grunted the stable-man hoarsely.
“Aw! ---- you and your oats!” groaned Spot, as he crawled painfully
over the edge and rubbed his sore head.
He looked back inside and motioned to the stable-man to look.
Cautiously the man looked down at the sleeping form of Blondy Hagen.
“This,” said the stable-man seriously, “this here is my-steer-i-us,
by----”
“Where did they go?” asked Easton, rubbing his head, on which appeared
to be a bump about the size and shape of an egg. “Did you see the
lady?”
“Was there a lady?”
“You ---- fool!” exploded Easton. “I brought a lady here with me;
_sabe_? I came to get that horse and buggy I left here.”
The stable-man stepped outside and glanced across at the empty stall.
“The horse and buggy is gone,” he announced. “If you know where you
left the lady, you might look and see if she’s still there or not.”
But Easton exploded a number of vile epithets and staggered away down
the street. The stable-man went back, looked at Blondy Hagen, blew out
the lantern and went outside and shoved the sliding-doors together.
“Too ---- much hocus-pocus to suit me!” he grunted, and went home.
* * * * *
It was in the small hours of the morning when Mrs. Frosty Snow awoke
from a troubled sleep--wherein she had fired Swede Sam in three
languages--and sat up in bed. Frosty was on a cattle-buying trip, and
Mrs. Snow was all alone in the ranch-house.
Some one was knocking urgently on the front door. She crawled out of
bed, picked up a heavy Colt six-shooter, and padded her way to the
front door.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“This is Hashknife Hartley, Mrs. Snow.”
“Kinda early, ain’t you?”
“Yes’m,” admitted Hashknife, “it is early. Can I talk to you?”
“If you don’t mind strainin’ your voice through the door.”
“I don’t mind,” Hashknife laughed softly. “But this has got to be
confidential, Mrs. Snow. It’s about a girl.”
“Thasso?” Mrs. Snow’s voice was a trifle sarcastic. “I ain’t in the
habit of bein’ woke up at four o’clock to pass out advice to the
love-lorn, Mr. Hartley.”
“Listen, ma’am,” begged Hashknife. “This ain’t nothin’
matrimonial--honest to gosh. You know Spot Easton?”
“By sight and smell,” she replied. Spot Easton’s perfumery was not at
all popular with the range folk.
“He lied to a girl,” stated Hashknife softly. “I done stole the girl
from him, and I’ve gotta have somebody to take care of her for a
while.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” demanded Mrs. Snow, opening the door
about four inches. “Where is she? Tell me about her.”
Hashknife swiftly recounted what he knew about the girl, and about the
situation at the 88 ranch.
“Bring her in,” ordered Mrs. Snow. “I’ll sure take care of her and
nobody’s goin’ to know where she is. Prob’ly end up in a killin’, but
that ain’t my affair. Say you’re livin’ at the Tombstone ranch? Yeah,
that danged Swede came back.”
Hashknife went back to the dim outlines of a horse and buggy and
returned in a moment with Jane Lee and Sleepy. After thirty miles in a
top-buggy, with a companion who only talked in monosyllables, Jane Lee
was more than willing to stay any place. She did not have the slightest
idea of what it was all about. It was not like the reception she had
expected. In fact, it was like a nightmare.
“Just edge to one side, while she comes in,” ordered Mrs. Snow. “Frosty
Snow’s old woman is kind of in the rough at this time o’ day.”
Jane Lee walked in and Mrs. Snow closed the door to a few inches.
“Come agin, cowboys.”
“Yes’m, y’betcha,” laughed Hashknife, and the two men clumped down the
steps and back to their horses and buggy, while Mrs. Snow put her arms
around Jane Lee.
“Whatcha cryin’ for?” demanded Mrs. Snow. “My gosh, you’re all right,
honey.”
“I--I don’t know what it is all about,” sobbed Jane. “I don’t know what
became of Mr. Easton, and----”
“Don’tcha worry about that sidewinder,” Mrs. Snow said soothingly. “You
brace up and quit worryin’. Mebbe it was danged lucky them two punchers
kidnaped you, honey.”
“But why did they?” demanded Jane with some heat.
“Didn’t you ask ’em?”
“Dozens of times. The one who drove the horse wouldn’t tell me
anything. He kept singing something about being buried on the lone
prairie.”
Mrs. Snow laughed and patted Jane on the shoulder.
“You brace up, honey. You’re danged lucky to ride all the way from
Gunsight with a mournful cowpuncher, if you only knowed it. You snap
into a nightgown and pile into my bed, and I’ll bet you’ll feel better.
We’re common folks here at the Half-Moon, and, outside of havin’ an
imported cook, we don’t put on much dog.”
“I suppose,” said Jane softly, “I should be thankful that I am here
with you.”
“Yes, and you don’t know half of it, little lady.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy took the horse and buggy back to Caldwell, and
tied the horse to the rack beside the livery-stable. No one saw them
come, and no one saw them leave, except one or two dogs, which barked
sleepily.
They rode back to the Tombstone ranch, and stabled their horses just as
the first light of dawn showed over the eastern hills.
They stopped in the porch of the ranchhouse as the sound of galloping
horses came to their ears, and saw two riders swing around the bend,
riding swiftly toward Caldwell. One rider was a little in the rear, and
in the dim light he seemed to be a trifle unsteady in his saddle.
“Somebody unlocked the oat-bin,” laughed Hashknife softly, “and the
bloodhounds are on the trail of a top-buggy.”
“They’re welcome to it,” yawned Sleepy. “Hope I never have to ride that
far in one again. I sung all the time to kinda keep things cheerful.”
“My ----!” gasped Hashknife. “The poor girl!”
Spot Easton rode all the way from Gunsight with a blind, unreasoning
rage in his heart. It had taken him quite a while to arouse the other
stable-man in order to hire a saddle-horse, and then he had gone back
to the oat-bin and made Blondy Hagen ride with him.
He did not have the slightest idea which way the horse and buggy had
gone, until he rode into Caldwell and found it hitched outside the
livery-stable. Hagen was still too drunk and sleepy to care how Easton
felt, and listened indifferently while Easton polluted the morning air
with profanity.
“’F I stole a horsh ’n buggy, I’d git hung,” stated Blondy knowingly.
“And that’s no ---- lie, either!” snapped Easton. “Come on.”
Blondy followed him down to Jake Blue’s office. Easton hammered on the
door with the toe of his boot. In a few moments Jake’s tousled head
appeared and he demanded to know what in the adjective did anybody mean
by waking him up in the middle of the night.
Rapidly, and with many oaths, Easton explained that Hashknife and
Sleepy had stolen his horse and buggy at Gunsight.
“Thasso?” Blue shivered slightly. “Got any idea where they went with
it?”
“Brought it here!” snapped Easton. “It’s tied to the livery-stable
hitch-rack.”
“Then it ain’t stole a-tall.” Blue seemed relieved over this statement.
“They stole it from me!” yowled Easton. “I tell you they hit me on the
head and threw me into a ---- oat-bin!”
“Thasso,” nodded Blondy seriously. “I know, because I was in there,
too.”
Blue started to laugh, but managed to choke it back. It was no place to
laugh, and yet he howled inwardly at the thought of Easton and Hagen
being thrown into an oat-bin.
“I want you to arrest the both of ’em on a charge of horse stealin’,”
demanded Easton angrily, “and if you think there’s anything funny about
it--go ahead and laugh.”
Blue grew serious. He did not relish the idea of going out to arrest
those two men on such a serious charge.
“Are you sure they was the ones?” he asked. “Can you git up in court
and swear that they stole your horse and buggy?”
“I’m ---- ’f I can,” said Hagen. “All I knows----”
“Of course I can swear to it!” snapped Easton. “Do you think I’d get up
there and admit that I didn’t know who done it?”
“If I had a good deputy-sheriff--” Blue expressed his thoughts in
words.
“Take Hagen with you, Jake.”
“Like ----!” exploded Hagen. “No sir! I ain’t----”
“Since when did you break away from us?” queried Spot meaningly.
“Oh, awright. I ain’t breakin’ away from nobody, Spot; but when you
monkey with them two jaspers there’s a hoo-doo on the job, I tell you.
If you lemme try agin’ with the long-range stuff----”
“And miss again,” sneered Easton. “All the good that’s done is to make
old Skelton more careful.”
“We ain’t had much luck, tha’s a fact,” said Jake Blue sadly. “Mebbe we
went at it all wrong.”
“You can’t expect a fortune to come along and roost in your lap, can
you?” asked Easton sneeringly. “We’ll get these two punchers into jail
and then we’ll settle with old man Skelton.”
“If we’d only tried to buy the ---- place at first,” argued Blue.
“Well, we didn’t!”
“It was your idea to make old Skelton sick of his place, so’s he’d be
willin’ to sell cheap.”
“Yeah? How did I know that he was going to hang on in spite of
everything? I done the best I could.”
“I reckon so, Spot. Doc Clevis tried to buy it agin’ from Skelton and
the old son-of-a-gun made him a price this time.”
“How much, Jake?”
“Hundred thousand dollars.”
“That,” said Hagen seriously, “is more’n it’s worth.”
“Aw, ----!” exploded Easton. “If you’re tryin’ to be funny, Hagen----”
“Well, ain’t it?” wailed Hagen.
Easton turned back to Blue.
“You slam them two jaspers into jail right away,” he said. “If you need
more help I can send in some of the boys from the 88.”
“All right,” Blue said dubiously. “You go and sleep f’r an hour or so,
Hagen. This ain’t no blear-eyed job, y’betcha.”
“Make it longer’n that if you feel like it,” agreed Hagen. “Make it a
week, and see if I git impatient.”
Easton and Hagen went back up the street toward the War-Bonnet. It was
too early for Caldwell to be awake, and Easton wondered what old
Lonesome Lee was doing out so early in the morning.
The old man was standing in front of the Paris restaurant, and for the
first time in months he seemed to be sober.
“What in ---- are you doing around so early?” questioned Easton as they
came up to the old man.
“Just lookin’ around, thassall,” Lonesome Lee’s voice was very husky,
but there was no trace of drunkeness left.
“Lookin’ around, eh? What for?”
“Just for instance.” The old man was a trifle belligerent.
This attitude did not please Spot Easton. He much preferred to have the
old man whining for liquor.
“What’s biting you?” he snapped.
“Not a danged thing, Spot. I’m sober today, if you take notice, and I’m
lookin’ for a letter I lost.”
“Letter?” echoed Easton. “What letter?”
“I was drunk,” continued the old man, “but I wasn’t so drunk that I
didn’t know about that letter. Somehow I remember you tellin’ me about
other letters, Spot-- letters that you wrote. I’ve been a ---- old
drunken bum, but I’m sober right now and I want to know a few things.”
“That must ’a’ been the letter that the long cowboy had,” said Blondy
unthinkingly.
Easton shot Blondy a withering glance and turned back to Lonesome.
“I dunno what you’re talking about, Lee.”
“I remember the tall cowboy,” muttered Lonesome. “He was a stranger.
But you got the letter, Spot.”
Spot Easton’s hand went mechanically to his ear as he shook his head.
“No, I’m ---- if I did! You ask Windy who got that letter. Come on and
let’s have a drink, Lonesome.”
Lonesome shook his head slowly, licked his lips and walked away. Easton
glared after him and turned to Hagen:
“Will you ever learn to keep your danged tongue out of my affairs?
Ain’t you got sense enough to let me do the talkin’? Now, that ---- old
fool will likely talk to everybody and--aw, ----! I hope you and Jake
Blue will get your men today. I don’t want Lonesome Lee to talk to
Hashknife. It may take a killin’ to prevent it.”
“You don’t let me in on anythin’,” complained Blondy bitterly. “You
talk about letters and cattle-brands and the Tombstone ranch, and you
never let me know the why of anythin’. All I’m good fer is to
bush-whack, somebody.”
“You get paid for it, don’t you?” demanded Easton.
“Yeah, I get paid for it.”
“Then keep your mouth shut, Hagen. The less you know the safer you
are--_sabe_? It’ll pay you to keep still.”
* * * * *
It was about noon when Hashknife and Sleepy woke up. Bliz Skelton was
cooking breakfast for them and, though evidently curious, he asked no
questions of what happened the night before.
“I went up to Caldwell last night,” he volunteered. “Ain’t been up
there at night for a dog’s age, ’cause it wasn’t noways safe for me to
be on the road after dark.”
“Any excitement?” yawned Hashknife, as he tugged at a tight boot.
“No-o-o,” Skelton twisted his face away from the spattering bacon. “Doc
Clevis offered to buy this ranch again. A few weeks ago he offered me
eight thousand, but last night he made it nine. Got kinda ruffed ’cause
I wouldn’t take his offer.”
“You’ve had other offers, ain’t you?” asked Sleepy.
“Yeah. Spot Easton offered me seventy-five hundred.”
“That don’t noways include the stock, does it?” queried Hashknife.
“No. Just the ranch-house and what fenced ground goes with it. When
Spot made that offer I reckon I had about seven hundred head of 33 cows
on this range, but right now a 33 critter is as scarce as vi’lets in
Jan’wary.”
“Well, gee cripes!” exploded Hashknife, stamping his feet on the floor.
“You mean to stand there and tell me that you let somebody run off all
your stock?”
“Well, I--I didn’t ‘let’ ’em, Hashknife. ’Pears that you don’t have to
let folks rustle your cows.”
“Ain’t you complained none?”
“Who’d I complain to?”
“That’s a question,” admitted Hashknife. “I reckon you’ll just about
have to sell out, Bliz.”
“---- if I will! No gosh danged bunch of----”
Bliz let loose of his skillet and grabbed his short shot-gun from its
rack beside the door. Some one had ridden up to the porch, and now was
coming up the steps to the door.
Bliz stepped back out of line with the door and motioned to Sleepy to
open it. Some one knocked loudly. Sleepy grasped the knob and drew the
door open, keeping himself behind it, while Jake Blue and Blondy Hagen
stood there and blinked into the muzzle of Skelton’s riot-gun and
wished they had postponed their visit.
“Put dud-down that gun,” stuttered Blue, trying to force himself to be
brave. “You--you----”
Blondy Hagen’s hands went up above his head, and he squinted dismally.
His heart was not in this job at all.
“Whatcha want here, Blue?” asked Skelton.
Jake Blue tore his eyes away from the menacing gun barrels and squinted
at Hashknife and Sleepy.
“I want them two,” he replied. “I’ve got warrants for their arrest for
horsestealin’.”
He started to reach for his pocket, but changed his mind. Such a move
might be suicide. Hashknife walked over to the door and looked at Blue.
“Who swore out that warrant, sheriff?”
“Spot Easton.”
“Yeah?” Hashknife seemed greatly amused. “You go back and tell Spot
Easton to come and get us, will you?”
“I’m the sheriff!” snapped Blue.
“That’s sure a deplorable fact,” agreed Hashknife, “and one of the main
reasons why we refuse to get ourselves arrested. We’d have a sweet time
ever gettin’ out of jail, whether we were innocent or guilty.”
“If you could prove--” began Blue, but Hashknife interrupted him.
“Prove it? Why, we’d have a fine chance. I suppose we’d have to stay in
jail until the first term of court, eh?”
“Unless the judge would turn you loose.”
“Judge Pelley’d jist about do that,” grunted Skelton. “He knows about
as much law as my old pinto horse, and he’d send his mother to jail for
a quart of booze. Him and Spot Easton are thicker’n thieves.”
“I’ve got to do m’ duty,” wailed Blue. “I ain’t noways responsible for
what Judge Pelley would do, am I? You’re resistin’ an officer of the
law, if you only know it.”
“Ain’t nobody resisted you--yet,” Hashknife reminded him softly, “but
if you don’t crawl to your horses and rattle your hocks out of here,
I’ll nail your pants to the floor and leave you there to starve.”
“Come on,” urged Hagen. “There’s a difference in bein’ brave and bein’
a ---- fool, Jake. I never knowed a two-barrel gun yet what wasn’t easy
on the trigger. Come on.”
Hagen turned and went down the steps to his horse, flexing his tired
arms as he went. Jake Blue swallowed his pride, along with a lump in
his throat, and followed him down the steps.
“This ain’t the last of it, y’betcha,” he called back to the open
doorway. “There’s more’n one count agin’ you now.”
Skelton stepped out on the porch and pointed to where the road wound
around the point of a hill.
“Speakin’ of counts, Jake; there’s just twenty goin’ to be said by me.
If you ain’t around that corner----”
Twenty counts is a short time; but Jake Blue and Blondy Hagen beat it
by four. It was an ignominious retreat, especially for Jake Blue, who
had a reputation to sustain, but he was wise enough to go while the
going was good.
Skelton turned to go into the door, but stopped and stared at the man
who was standing at the corner of the house.
“Lonesome Lee!” he grunted. “Whatcha doin’ there?”
“Waitin’ for Jake Blue and Hagen to pull out,” replied Lonesome, and
came up to Skelton.
“How’d you come, Lonesome?”
“Walked. I side-tracked for Jake and Blondy.”
“Well,” Skelton scratched his head and looked up at Sleepy and
Hashknife, who were standing in the doorway. “Well, this seems kinda
queer t’ me.”
Lonesome looked up at Hashknife.
“I reckon you’re the man I wanted to see. ’Member me havin’ a letter
the other day?”
Hashknife nodded.
“I--I kinda wanted to know what was in it,” said Lonesome slowly. “I
sobered up ’specially for----”
Came the whining _pluk!_ of a bullet and Lonesome Lee jerked back a
half-step, threw one hand to his face and buckled forward at the knees.
Hashknife dove forward, grasped the old man in his arms and fairly fell
through the doorway with him. Another bullet bit into the door-casing,
and Skelton and Sleepy dove in behind Hashknife. Another bullet
_pinged_ in through the door and ricocheted off the cook-stove before
Skelton kicked the door shut.
Hashknife picked Lonesome Lee off the floor and laid him on the bed.
The old man’s face was a mass of gore and he was cursing wickedly,
deliriously; fighting to get back to his feet.
“Like a chicken with its head cut plumb off!” gasped Sleepy.
“Lay still!” snapped Hashknife, dodging Lonesome’s kicking legs. “That
bullet knocked, but didn’t come in.”
“Creased?” queried Sleepy anxiously, as he grasped Lonesome by the
legs.
Lonesome ceased kicking, but his flow of profanity was undiminished.
Skelton brought the water-bucket and a towel and washed the blood off
the old man’s face. The bullet had cut a furrow from just above his
right eye to a spot over his ear and, in the passing, it had flicked a
notch in the top of the ear. The wound was superficial, but the shock
was considerable.
He sat up and looked foolishly around, while Skelton mopped off the
gore.
“Wh-what happened?” he croaked.
Hashknife examined the wound and turned quickly to Skelton.
“You patch him up, Bliz,” he said. “He’ll likely have a sore head, but
that won’t hurt him. Me and Sleepy are goin’ to Caldwell.”
Hashknife was half-way out of the door at the finish of his statement
and heading for the stable. Sleepy gawped for a moment and trotted
after him. They saddled swiftly and galloped out to the Caldwell road.
“Whatcha goin’ to Caldwell for?” asked Sleepy, as they hit a level
stretch and shook up their mounts.
“They’ll arrest us sure as ----, Hashknife.”
“Thasso?”
Hashknife spat out a half-burned cigaret and pulled his hat lower over
his eyes.
“I’m plumb tired of bein’ shot at, Sleepy.”
* * * * *
It was about three miles to Caldwell, and they covered the distance in
record speed. At the War-Bonnet hitch-rack they dismounted and went
into the big saloon. There was no sign of Jake Blue or Blondy Hagen.
Windy, the bartender, gaped at ths sight of them and upset some glasses
on the back-bar with his elbows.
“Seen Jake Blue lately?” asked Hashknife.
“Nope.”
“Where’s Spot Easton?”
“Dunno.”
Hashknife leaned on the bar and studied Windy closely.
“You don’t know very much, do you?”
“If I did,” said Windy slowly, “I wouldn’t be a bartender. I didn’t lie
about not knowin’ where Spot Easton is, but Jake Blue and Blondy Hagen
went through here a short time ago, headin’ for the 88.”
“Goin’ after help, eh?”
“Mm-m-m.”
Hashknife considered this. It was going to be very awkward if the
sheriff brought the gang from the 88 outfit to help him serve the
warrants.
“How many punchers on the 88?” he asked.
“Seven, I reckon.”
“That makes nine, countin’ Blue and Hagen. Odd number, ain’t it? Wish
it was ten.”
“For gosh sake, why?” grunted Windy.
“I hate to fight odd numbers,” said Hashknife seriously. “Kinda hoodoos
me.”
“Tryin’ to kid me?” asked Windy.
“If you think so, come with ’em. Didja hear about Lonesome Lee gettin’
killed?”
“Lonesome Lee! Whatcha mean?”
“Somebody shot him on Skelton’s porch a while ago.”
“Kill him dead?”
“Didja ever know a feller to get hit with a .30-30 and fail to grab a
harp?”
“Whatcha know?” grunted Windy. “Who’d kill him?”
“Come on, Sleepy.”
Hashknife strode back to the door and headed for their horses. They
rode swiftly back toward the Tombstone ranch, with Sleepy demanding to
know what in ---- they ever made the trip to Caldwell for, and what
good it was going to do?
“Elimination and instruction, Sleepy,” replied Hashknife, as they
dismounted at the Tombstone corral.
“I had an idea that Hagen and Blue might ’a’ stopped and took a shot at
Lonesome Lee; but they wouldn’t ’a’ had time to circle back and still
go through Caldwell much ahead of us. I was also kinda anxious to find
out how many men Blue was goin’ to bring back with him.”
“---- of a lot of good that’ll do us,” complained Sleepy, “except to
know that we died fightin’. I’m sure ready and willin’ to pull out of
Lodge-Pole county.”
They found Lonesome and Skelton discussing cattle over their pipes.
Lonesome was not much the worse for his wound. Skelton had used up
every available rag on the ranch to check the bleeding, and Lonesome’s
head looked like a turban.
“What kind of a bunch are workin’ on the 88?” asked Hashknife abruptly.
“What kind?” Lonesome cogitated deeply.
“Not much good, I reckon. None of my old gang are there.”
“Easton fired ’em, eh?”
Lonesome nodded slowly and wearily.
“I reckon so. He got a bunch from Arizona. I dunno anythin’ wrong about
any of ’em, but I know I wouldn’t want that kind of punchers working
for me. A feller by the name of Dell Blackwood is his foreman and
he----”
“That’s a plenty,” interrupted Hashknife. “I know that horse-thief. Me
and him worked on the Hashknife outfit and I know him from the belt
both ways. Betcha he’s got ‘Holy Moses’ Herman workin’ for him.”
“There is a Herman,” nodded Lonesome. “Short feller, with a big nose.”
“That’s him!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Ought to ’a’ been hung fifteen
years before he got old enough to wear long pants. Say, how much of the
88 does Easton own?”
“I dunno. He kinda took charge, and--and----”
“You mean he’s kept you drunk for a year or two and jist kinda nudged
you out of everythin’. Shot your nerve all to ---- with hooch, and
hoodled you out of every thing you own.”
Lonesome stared down at the floor, but said nothing.
“Has he got a bill of sale from you?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Lonesome. “If he did, he got it from me when I
was drunk.”
“And he could ’a’ got it from you any old time durin’ the last year or
so,” declared Hashknife, “’cause you ain’t been sober in all that
time.”
“What business is it of yours?” demanded Lonesome angrily. “It’s my
ranch?”
“What about Jane Lee?”
Lonesome jerked upright and stared open-mouthed at Hashknife.
“Jane?” he croaked. “What--who----”
Lonesome Lee spluttered over his own words, his hand trembled wildly as
he tried to grasp Hashknife.
“Set down!” snapped Hashknife. “She ain’t far from here, but I’m danged
’f she’s goin’ to see you in the shape you are now, old timer. She
thinks you’re a dandy old dad, instead of a broken old wreck. She
thinks you own the 88. You’re a ---- of a nice specimen for a young
lady to pick out for a dad, ain’tcha?”
Lonesome bowed his sore old head on his hands and wept, while he swore
feelingly at himself.
“You ought t’ have a gizzard,” said Hashknife, “and then you could eat
with the chickens.”
“I betcha,” sobbed Lonesome. “I got it all comin’ to me, young feller.
Don’t talk soft on my account.”
“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll try and say somethin’ mean to
yuh. Can’t remember givin’ Easton a bill of sale, eh?”
“No.”
Sleepy got up, and going over to a rear window, peered out, then drew
back quickly.
“Here they come!” he said softly. “The whole ---- works!”
Hashknife looked around quickly.
“Got a cellar, Skelton?”
“---- right I have!”
Skelton hopped across the floor and lifted his table away from a
trap-door. This he raised.
“Git down in there, Lonesome,” ordered Hashknife, “and don’t make a
noise; _sabe_? Don’t ask questions!”
Lonesome went down the short ladder, and the trap was closed and
covered with the table, just as a crowd of men, led by Jake Blue, rode
up to the front door.
Hashknife and Sleepy had closed the door as they came in, and now
Skelton slipped the bar into place and picked up his shotgun.
“Come on,” whispered Hashknife. “We’ll go out the back window, Sleepy.
Don’t make any resistance, Skelton. Put down the shotgun and act
natural.”
He and Sleepy slid out the back window, and shut it behind them, just
as some one knocked loudly on the front door.
They went cautiously around the house, walking sidewise, with their
backs against the wall.
“’Bout a dozen of ’em,” warned Sleepy, but Hashknife gave his warning
no heed.
They could hear Jake Blue questioning Skelton, and the murmur of other
voices.
“Where’s the dead man?” It was Doc Clevis’ voice.
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” replied Skelton.
Hashknife peered around the corner and stepped out, with Sleepy beside
him. Jake Blue and Doc Clevis were on the porch arguing through the
open door with Skelton, while the rest of the men were still mounted.
The nearest man to them was a grim-faced person, with a heavy red
mustache. Just beyond him was a heavy-set cowboy, with an enormous
nose.
“Horse-thieves from the Hashknife!” snorted Hashknife loudly.
Every one turned quickly, and just as quickly they realized their
disadvantage. Hashknife was standing with his legs far apart, his right
hand resting on his hip just over the top of his holstered gun, while
Sleepy stood with one elbow braced against the house and his hand
swaying over the butt of his Colt.
“Don’t move, Blue,” cautioned Hashknife. “You and Doc just hold that
pose or the picture is spoiled.”
Hashknife did not seem to look at them as he spoke, but watched the two
mounted men nearest him.
“Blackwood and Holy Moses,” grinned Hashknife.
Blackwood moistened his lips.
“You!” he grunted with a great effort. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Danged right you didn’t,” agreed Hashknife. “If you did, you and that
elephantnosed horse-thief over there would ’a’ fogged for Canada.”
“Thasso?” retorted the big-nosed cowboy, and cleared his throat with
great difficulty.
Hashknife appeared to size up the rest of the crowd.
“I dunno the rest of you, gentlemen, but you’re in danged bad comp’ny.”
“You two are under arrest,” declared Blue loudly, “and we want Lonesome
Lee’s body.”
“You don’t need to watch these two,” stated Skelton from the doorway,
indicating Blue and the doctor. Skelton had them covered with his
double-barreled shot-gun.
“You’re under arrest, too!” wailed Blue nervously. “Better submit
quietly if you know what’s good fer you.”
The big-nosed cowboy must have thought that the Sheriff’s discourse had
drawn Hashknife’s attention, because he whirled quickly in his saddle.
Hashknife’s right hand flicked down and up, and Blackwood flung himself
forward to be out of line with the bullet that hissed past him and
thudded into the big-nosed one. The latter’s pistol discharged and
broke a window. He jerked back, swayed sidewise and fell out of his
saddle, while his horse whirled, kicked at the falling man, and trotted
toward the gate.
“Oh, the ---- fool!” complained Blackwood bitterly. “If he didn’t know
Hashknife Hartley--Gawd!”
The shooting had unnerved Blackwood.
“You seen how it was done, didn’t you Blue?” asked Hashknife softly.
“He went for his gun.”
“By ----!” swore Blue savagely. “Can’t ten of us take two men?”
“Hop to it,” said Hashknife. “Ain’t no reason why you can’t try it.”
“Count me out,” said Blackwood quickly. “I sure as ---- ain’t lost
neither of ’em.”
He turned his horse and rode straight toward the gate and the rest of
the horsemen followed him.
“Come back here and get Holy Smoke!” snapped Hashknife.
Blackwood and two of the men dismounted, and one of them put the
wounded man on his saddle and rode away with him.
Blue chewed savagely on his tobacco and stared at Doc Clevis, who
seemed indifferent to it all.
“Arrestin’ folks ain’t in my line,” stated Doc, as if in self-defense.
“I’m here to take charge of the body of Lonesome Lee.”
“What’s your line, Blue?” asked Hashknife, and the Lodge-Pole sheriff
swore feelingly.
“If cussin’ showed ability, you’d be Secretary of War,” said Hashknife.
“What’s all this about Lonesome Lee bein’ dead?”
“We-well!” snorted Doc Clevis wonderingly.
“He’s in there,” said Blue pointing into the house. “By ----, I’m goin’
t’ find out about things.”
He brushed past Skelton, who stepped aside at a nod from Hashknife, and
they all went inside. Blue and the doctor looked around. The
blood-stained blanket on the bed caught Blue’s eye, and he pounced on
it quickly.
“Whose blood is that?” he asked triumphantly.
“You can have it, if you want it,” said Hashknife.
“What’sa idea of hidin’ the body?” demanded the doctor.
“Looks ---- queer t’ me,” swore Blue meaningly. “Man gets shot and his
body hid. You fellers think you can do things like that? Huh!”
“Mebbe he’s already buried,” suggested Hashknife. “Mebbe we dug a hole
and buried him.”
Blue snorted in disgust and turned toward the door, as if to go
outside, but whirled like a flash, gun in hand. Skelton, who was a
trifle to one side, idly swinging the shot-gun in one hand, had seen
Blue’s move toward his gun, and as Blue whirled, Skelton threw the
heavy riot-gun straight at his head.
It was over in a second. The breech of the shot-gun crashed into Blue’s
face, knocking him off his feet and tossing his pistol toward the
ceiling, while the shotgun slammed into the wall and sent a handful of
buckshot into the floor.
“Kerzowie!” whooped Hashknife.
Doc Clevis helped Blue to his feet and led him outside to his horse.
Blue did not seem to have the slightest idea of what had happened to
him, although his nose had shifted from its original mooring, giving
him a peculiar lopsided, cock-eyed appearance. His right eye was also
beginning to draw a dark mantle across his vision, but in spite of it
all, Blue whistled through his teeth and obeyed Doc Clevis to the
letter.
As they rode away Bliz Skelton shook his head and looked at Hashknife.
“It’s all right so far, but this is the finish, I reckon. I don’t like
Blue and his gang, but they stand for the law. Everybody around here
hates me, and it ain’t goin’ to stretch your imagination to see that
Blue will have the whole country behind him. If I was you fellers I’d
saddle up and pull m’ freight, _muy pronto_.”
“Not yet, Bliz. Shucks,” Hashknife looked solemnly at several heifers,
which had drifted up past the barn and were grazing among the
tombstones. “I’ve got business to attend to, don’tcha know it.
There’s----”
Hashknife stopped and squinted at a spotted yearling, which had turned
broadside to him, about fifty feet away.
“You brand on the right hip, Bliz?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife stepped inside the house and took a coiled rope from a peg in
the wall. Quickly fashioning a hondo and running out a loop, he roped
the yearling, which bucked and bawled, kicking over a number of
tombstones in its gyrations, while Sleepy and Hashknife dug their heels
into the hard ground and held it firm.
“Mebbe I’m wrong,” panted Hashknife, “but I wish you’d take a squint at
that brand, Bliz.”
Skelton approached the half-choked calf and squinted at the 88 on its
hip.
“Nothin’ but an 88 calf,” he replied.
“Look closer,” urged Hashknife. “See if the front halves of the 88
ain’t newer burn than the other.”
“By ----, it is!” exploded Skelton foolishly. “Whatcha know about that?
Who in ---- done that?”
“Come on and let’s put the critter into the corral,” ordered Hashknife.
They led it into a gate and removed the rope while the rest of the
calves scattered out through the main gate and into the hills.
“That’s where your calves have gone to,” said Hashknife seriously.
“It’s a cinch to use a runnin’-iron and make 88 out of 33. Some danged
cow-men ain’t got sense enough to make their brand fool-proof. How long
has that outfit been knowed as the 88?”
Skelton masticated rapidly for a moment.
“Since Easton’s been in control, I betcha. I’ve hear the place spoke of
as the old Cross-L outfit. That was likely Lonesome Lee’s brand. We’ll
ask him.”
Lonesome Lee came painfully and cautiously out of his hiding-place and
considered Skelton’s question.
“Easton bought that brand from a feller over near Ross Mountains. He
drove in a hundred head of feeders which was wearin’ the 88, and
he--aw, I’m danged if I know what he wanted to do it for, but he
rebranded all of the Cross-L stock, and cancelled my registry.”
“And the 88 brand made it a cinch to steal all of Skelton’s stock,”
said Hashknife. “All they had to do was to burn on the other half of
the 88.”
He took a pencil and illustrated it to Lonesome.
“I--I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” wailed Lonesome. “My ----,
I ain’t no thief!”
“No, I don’t reckon you are, Lonesome.”
“I’ll make it all up, Skelton,” blurted Lonesome. “I sure will. I’ll
give him half of my own stock.”
“Have you got any stock?” asked Hashknife.
Lonesome stared at the three men and turned away.
“I dunno,” he said dully. “I ain’t got no idea how I stand. Mebbe I’ve
got a thousand head of cows, and if I have, I’d give ’em all for just
one drink of liquor.”
Skelton dug under his bunk and drew out a jug and handed it to
Lonesome.
“I reckon you need a shot, Lonesome. If you’re goin’ to do a good job
of quittin’, you’ve got to--what’sa matter?”
Lonesome turned and walked wearily to the door.
“I ain’t drinkin’ nothin’, Skelton--not today. I’ve had my share.”
Skelton shook his head wonderingly and replaced the jug, while
Hashknife went to Lonesome and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“Everybody in Caldwell thinks you’re dead, Lonesome. Mind keepin’ out
of sight for a while, and let ’em go on thinkin’ that?”
“What’s the idea?”
“It’s like this,” Hashknife wrinkled his nose away from the smoke of
his cigaret. “In an honest court we could make Easton and his gang hard
to catch, for rustlin’, but under the present conditions it’s only an
excuse to kill somebody. If you can keep out of sight I’m bettin’ my
hunch that we can wallop ---- out of that gang. I ain’t no Sherlock
Holmes, but I sure as ---- have an idea.
“If you got an effect, you sure must ’a’ had a cause. Know what I
mean?”
Hashknife pointed at the tombstones.
“There’s an effect, Lonesome.”
Lonesome nodded as if only half-understanding and looked at Hashknife.
“Where’s my daughter?”
“Never mind her, Lonesome. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, and dead
men tell no tales. You’re supposed to be dead, you know.”
“All right. I ain’t goin’ to worry about her; but there’s a danged lot
of things I don’t understand.”
“We’re all thataway, old-timer,” said Hashknife.
* * * * *
Nothing further happened that day at the Tombstone ranch. Everyone kept
under cover for fear of another shot from the hills. Lonesome Lee asked
no more questions. He seemed to be willing to let Hashknife engineer
the whole thing.
It was about eleven o’clock the next morning when Mrs. Frosty Snow
drove through the big gate and uprooted several of the tombstones in
her mad haste.
Hashknife met her at the door, and she fairly exploded in her eagerness
to tell the latest news.
“You fellers better hit the hills!” she panted. “You’re accused of
kidnapin’ Lonesome Lee’s daughter and killin’ the old man, ’cause he
tried to make you give her up!”
“Whatcha know about that?” Hashknife asked with a grunt.
“Shall I bring that girl up here?” asked Mrs. Snow. “It won’t take
me----”
“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “Leave her stay where she is, Mrs.
Snow. I kinda reckoned that somethin’ like this was due to happen, but
it sort of makes me work faster. How soon do you reckon they’ll show up
here?”
“Pretty soon. Jake Blue is organizin’ the whole thing, and he says he
ain’t takin’ no chances on you gettin’ away. Goin’ to surround the
place.”
“Jake’s got a lotta good ideas,” said Hashknife. “If he only turned his
mind to honest endeavors he’d do well and last longer.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Snow dubiously, as she brushed the tumbled hair from
her forehead and took a deep breath, “well, I’ve done my darndest. If
you won’t run--don’t mind me. Maybe you don’t realize what they mean to
do to you.”
“Ma’am, I sure thank you a lot. If you want to bring that girl up here
in about an hour, it might be kinda opportune.”
“I’ll bring her.”
Mrs. Snow went back to her team and climbed up on the wagon-seat.
“You fellers hang onto your necks until I get back.”
As she whirled her team around and drove swiftly back down the road,
Hashknife turned and grinned at Sleepy and Skelton.
“Whatcha goin’ to do?” blurted Skelton. “Produce the old man and the
girl?”
“They’re comin’ in a bunch this time,” observed Sleepy, “and we can’t
out-smart the whole danged country.”
Hashknife squinted out at the tombstones and turned quickly to Skelton.
“You got any wire, Skelton?”
“Wire? Yeah, I got a big spool of small wire--smaller than
bailin’-wire, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s the stuff, Skelton. Sleepy, you find a pick and shovel.”
When the desired articles were produced, Hashknife dug four small
holes; spading up the top soil on each for a space of about three feet
square. He got four stakes, which he drove into the ground, and
fastened a wire to each; piling the dirt to cover the stakes.
These spaded places were in a semi-circle in front of the porch, and
about ten feet apart. Hashknife worked swiftly, whistling unmusically
between his teeth, while Skelton and Sleepy watched him curiously. When
the work was all finished, Hashknife took the wires back into the house
and fastened them to a chair.
“Looney as a shepherd!” exploded Sleepy. “Can you beat that? Whatcha
think you are--a medicine man?”
“Now, come on--fast!” grunted Hashknife. “Skelton, you stay here with
Lonesome, and we’ll try and be back ahead of the procession.”
He turned and raced for the corral, still carrying the pick and shovel,
while Sleepy, protesting at the top of his voice, followed. Swiftly
they saddled. Hashknife mounted, holding the pick and shovel across the
fork of his saddle in front of him.
“Headin’ for the graveyard, Sleepy!” he yelped.
“Y’betcha,” grunted Sleepy meaningly as he spurred after him.
Skelton stared open-mouthed as they galloped past the house and headed
toward town. It was beyond him. He studied the four wires, shook his
head, and going inside he squirted some oil into the old riot-gun. That
done he sat down to wait.
At the entrance to the obliterated graveyard Hashknife drew up and
vaulted off his horse.
“Go to the point above that first curve, Sleepy,” he ordered. “Glue
your eye to the road, and when you see ’em comin’--yell like ---- and
come runnin’.”
“Aw-w-w!” protested Sleepy disgustedly, but Hashknife, with a shovel in
one hand and the pick in the other, was already through the wire fence
and running toward the creek.
Sleepy yanked his horse around and rode swiftly away. Hashknife’s
actions left little doubt in Sleepy Stevens’ mind but that he was
crazy. Still, Hashknife had never failed in an emergency--yet.
Hashknife stopped near the bank of the little creek and studied the
ground. The graveyard had been most thoroughly obliterated, but luckily
the destroyers had only harrowed the ground where the graves had been.
Hashknife was able to find the spot where the gambler, “Faro,” had been
buried. Barney Stout had said that Faro was buried between the other
graves and the creek.
Hashknife took off his coat and began digging. It was hot work, hard
work. The ground was rocky and progress was slow, and Hashknife had a
horror of digging into a grave. The old pick was dull and the spring
was missing in the shovel. A rocky reef impeded his progress and he was
forced to dig around it.
Suddenly he dropped to his knees and began an examination which made
his eyes sparkle. Every few moments his head would pop up like a
prairie-dog, listening for Sleepy’s yell of warning.
Then it came--the long-drawn “Yee-hoo-o-o!” cowboy yell, and he saw
Sleepy riding swiftly down the side of the hill toward the road.
Hashknife sprang to his feet and ran toward the fence, drawing on his
coat as he ran. He was in his saddle when Sleepy galloped up.
“Everybody in the county comin’!” panted Sleepy. “And they’re sure
comin’ in a hurry.”
“Quite an honor,” laughed Hashknife, as they spurred down the road.
“First time we ever had ’em all callin’ on us, cowboy.”
“If you can see a joke in it, ---- knows I can’t,” grumbled Sleepy. “A
big audience ain’t goin’ to bring no joy to my soul when I’m standin’
on nothin’, and lookin’ up a rope.”
They stabled their horses and raced for the house. Skelton met them
with an unspoken question, but Hashknife only laughed and shut the door
softly on the four wires.
“Lemme do the talkin’,” he said, “and don’t start no gun-play until I
bust loose.”
“Here they come!” exclaimed Sleepy, peering out of a rear window. “By
cripes! They’re surroundin’ the place this time!”
“Wish ’em joy, Sleepy,” chuckled Hashknife, licking the edge of a fresh
cigaret.
“Skelton, you keep that danged riot-gun under control, will you.
There’s a lot of decent folks in that mob, and that thing scatters.”
* * * * *
Beyond a doubt this time Jake Blue was prepared to make good. He had at
least fifty men in his posse, fifty hard-bitten cattlemen, who were
determined to help him uphold the law. Easton’s tale of the kidnaping
had been substantiated by the stable-man, at Gunsight.
The reported murder of Lonesome Lee did not stir them up, as did the
kidnaping, but showed a clear incentive for the murder. Spot Easton had
felt perfectly safe in elaborating his story considerably. He had
spoken at length on the graveyard question, which was still warm in the
minds of those who had friends or relatives buried there, and it
appeared that Skelton was in danger of sharing punishment with
Hashknife and Sleepy.
In fact, Easton and Blue had dwelt long upon the graveyard question,
and there were some in the posse in whose minds this was of more
interest than kidnaping and murder. Considerable liquor had also added
to the general ill-feeling.
The Tombstone ranch-house door was closed, and there was no sign of
life about the place. Blue detailed twelve men to circle the place and
stop any chance of escape, while the rest of them, confident in their
might, rode straight to the porch. Nearly every man held a rifle in his
hands, ready for action, while Jake Blue swung onto the porch and
approached the door.
Doc Clevis, Spot Easton and Blondy Hagen were in the main body of the
mob, as were also Dell Blackwood and two of the boys from the 88.
Blackwood’s horse was at the extreme outer edge of the crowd, and
Blackwood’s eyes shifted around as he considered the safest way out. He
knew Hashknife Hartley.
“Inside there!” yelled Blue, knocking on the door with the barrel of
his rifle.
“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Blue!” exclaimed Hashknife’s voice. “Ain’tcha
never goin’ to have any sense, sheriff?”
“What do you mean?” roared Blue nervously. He did not trust Hashknife.
“Look at them four wires which runs across the porch, will you?”
Blue glanced down at the small copper wires and his eyes traveled their
length. The rest of the crowd took them into consideration. A horse was
standing with both front feet on one of the mounds, and its rider
yanked back on the reins, half-swinging the horse around.
“We was expectin’ you,” stated Hashknife, “and we got all set. Now,
everybody hold quiet or my pardner will slam on the battery. You came
down here to kill us and, if we’ve got to pass out, we’ll take a lot of
company.”
He opened the door and came out on the porch. The assembled company
relaxed. They felt they were sitting over a volcano; and men do not
argue in a case of that kind.
Jake Blue backed away from Hashknife, masticating rapidly, and his eyes
flashed from the wires to the interior of the house, as if trying to
see if it was only a bluff.
“Well,” said Hashknife grimly, “we’re all together, it seems.”
“Do you think you can git away with this?”
Blue’s voice was thin as a high violin note. Some one in the crowd
laughed. Blue’s nose resembled a beet, and one eye was almost swollen
shut.
“I kinda thought I would,” said Hashknife as he looked around at the
crowd.
“Well, well! There’s Mister Easton and Mister Hagen. And there’s my old
friend, Doc Clevis. I was afraid they’d disappoint me. If there ain’t
Dell Blackwood! My, my! The devil must be gittin’ a laugh out of this.”
Those indicated shifted nervously. They had no idea of what was to come
next, but they were afraid to force the issue. Hashknife singled out a
respectable-looking cowman and spoke directly to him:
“Pardner, you look honest to me. Talk a little, will you?”
“Sure will.”
The man cleared his throat.
“Mebbe you can explain this here kidnapin’ and murder charge. Lonesome
Lee’s daughter was stolen and old Lonesome was murdered. Anyway, that’s
how she’s been told to me.”
“You’re ---- right!” snapped Blue.
Hashknife looked at Blue, steadily and closely. Blue shifted nervously.
He liked to be the center of interest, but not at a time like this.
Hashknife backed against the wall near the door, where he could include
Jake Blue in his sweep of the crowd.
“Folks, this is kind of a long tale I’m goin’ to tell you, and I ask
you to set tight. One crooked move and my pardner, who is just inside
the door, will jam down the little handle and we’ll migrate together.”
“We’re listenin’,” said one of the men.
“Why listen to him!” exploded Easton angrily. “We didn’t come down here
to listen to a lot of ---- lies, did we?”
“Stuff your fingers in your ears then!” retorted the cowboy who had
pulled his horse off the spaded spot. “I sure as ---- am willin’ to
listen. I know dinnymite, y’betcha.”
“’Pears to me that the whole thing started over the graveyard,”
observed Hashknife slowly. “Somebody played a joke on Skelton, and he
returned the compliment.”
One of the men swore feelingly, and a growl came from several more.
They agreed on this point, at least.
“It was a ---- of a joke,” continued Hashknife, “but was it a joke?”
“Whatcha mean?” snapped Blue.
“Mebbe I’ll tell you.” Hashknife was quite at his ease. “Old Lonesome
Lee owned the Cross-L outfit--and a big thirst--a very big thirst.
Bein’ drunk most of the time made it plumb easy for another man to
hoodle him out of the brand, which was changed to the 88--for a
reason.”
“That’s a ---- lie!” snorted Easton. “Everybody knows that I----”
“About that time,” interrupted Hashknife, “this old 33 outfit begins to
dwindle. Their cows don’t bring in no calves. Everybody hates Skelton,
and he knows ---- well that nobody is goin’ to help him find out where
they went to. Somebody tries to buy him out. I reckon there was quite a
few tryin’ to buy him out. About that time he gets shot at a few times.
’Pears to me that it’s a ---- bad shot, or shootin’ to scare him.”
“Now, wait a minute!” interposed Blue. “If Skelton was losin’ cows and
gettin’ shot at, why didn’t he come to me about it?”
“You?” Hashknife squinted at Blue and shook his head. “Mebbe you was
busy at that time, sheriff.”
The inference was plain, and it drew a mild laugh. The crowd was
interested in Hashknife’s story, and did not relish an interruption.
“Lonesome Lee has a daughter,” said Hashknife. “She’s a danged
nice-lookin’ girl, too. Lonesome was too drunk to _sabe_ things much,
and this girl writes him letters, which somebody else reads--and
answers. There was a photygraph, too, I reckon. Pretty girls ain’t any
too plentiful.
“Then somebody killed Quinin Quinn, and a poor, drunken Swede cook was
jailed for it.”
“Yes, and if them guns hadn’t been stolen--” wailed Blue meaningly.
“Outside of that you feel good, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife seriously.
“I dunno who killed Quinn, but I’ve sure got a hunch. Anyway, this girl
was sent for and came to Gunsight, where she kinda dropped out of
sight, leavin’ a certain party very peevish.”
Hashknife glanced at Easton, who was sitting very straight in his
saddle.
“Then Lonesome Lee sobered up,” Hashknife continued, “and realized what
a ---- fool he had been. He comes down here to find out a few things,
and somebody pot-shoots him at long range.”
“That’s your story,” interrupted Doc Clevis. “You never let us see the
body, so how do we know how he got killed?”
“The man that shot him didn’t want him to find out anythin’.” Hashknife
ignored Doc’s peevish statement.
“What’sa idea?” queried one of the cattlemen. “Who didn’t want him to?”
“I’m leadin’ up to that, pardner. The man who shot him was the man who
was interested in this girl. He knew that Lonesome Lee was sober. He
was the same man who bought the 88 outfit and changed Lonesome Lee’s
brand to the 88. Didja ever figure that a 33 is easy to change to an 88
with a runnin’ iron?”
“You’re a ---- liar!” yelped Easton trying to draw his gun. But the man
next to him, fearful of the buried dynamite, stopped him.
“Now,” Hashknife swayed away from the wall and hooked a thumb over the
top of his belt above his holster, “now, I’ll tell you where it all
started. Hold still, Blue! You’re as close to your gun as you’ll ever
get. Listen, you ---- coyotes are to blame for this Lodge-Pole trouble!
“Skelton did not wipe out your graveyard. He had nothin’ to do with it.
Accusin’ him of that was a ---- good scheme to git rid of him. It’s a
wonder that folks didn’t lynch him for it. It was a good joke to plant
them tombstones in his front-yard. Sure it was. It gave a ---- good
reason for him to go out and wipe out the graveyard and to stop any
more buryin’ there.”
Hashknife stopped for a moment. Jake Blue had gone gray as ashes, but
his eyes flashed wickedly. Doc Clevis hunched in his saddle, his face
set in lines of wonderment and fear.
“Skelton told me he didn’t do it,” continued Hashknife softly, “and I
believed him. I knew that somebody wanted to force him away from this
country. Them white tombstones”--Hashknife pointed at the yard--“were
only an effect.
“The last man to be buried in that graveyard up the road was Faro, a
gambler. Jake Blue, Doc Clevis and Spot Easton buried him, ’cause the
other folks didn’t want him buried there.
“They dug his grave near the little creek. Right after that burial this
graveyard joke was pulled off. Do you know why?”
Hashknife leaned closer to the crowd and his eyes flashed wickedly.
“No? You don’t? Well, I do! Two feet deep, where that gambler was
buried, is the cropping of a ledge of quartz that is so danged rich in
gold that it scared me. Jake Blue, Easton and Doc Clevis moved your
graveyard for fear they might never own that gold. They killed Quinin
Quinn, either because he knew too much, or to try and scare Skelton
into sellin’ ’em the ranch!”
As Hashknife was finishing Skelton and Sleepy stepped out onto the
porch beside him. Behind them came Lonesome Lee.
For a moment there was absolute silence, broken only by the slap of
Jake Blue’s palm against the butt of his gun.
* * * * *
But, swiftly as he drew, Hashknife shaded him by a second and fired
---- from his hip. Blue spun off the porch, splintering one of the
porch-posts with his misdirected bullet.
Spot Easton had thrown himself sidewise and fired across his horse’s
neck, but his horse threw its head wildly, and the bullet buzzed
through the doorway--doing no damage. A second later one of the cowboys
crashed his horse into Easton’s mount, knocking Easton from his saddle.
Doc Clevis, insane from the disclosures, and knowing what it would
mean, drew a heavy pistol from under his coat and spurred straight at
the porch, only to meet Skelton’s riot-gun at close range. He was
literally blown out of his saddle.
From the ground, among the milling horses, Spot Easton shot wildly at
Sleepy, who was churning up the dirt around Easton’s head with bullets.
Hagen fired once, and his bullet ripped along Hashknife’s forearm just
as Hashknife shot. The jar of the bullet threw Hashknife’s gun far
enough aside to miss Hagen but caught his horse, which whirled wildly,
unseating its rider. Hagen’s foot hung in the stirrup.
Bucking and kicking, the bronco whirled into the tangle of tombstones
where Hagen fell free. Easton’s gun was empty and he tried to fight his
way out of the milling horses, but Sleepy dove after him and, locked
together, they rolled into the open.
Dell Blackwood forced his horse to the porch and held up his hands.
“I’m out of it,” he yelled. “I’m admittin’ that I stole some 33 calves
for Easton, but I never shot nobody.”
He tossed his reins to the ground and slid out of his saddle.
Came the rattle of a wagon, and Mrs. Frosty Snow and Jane drove into
the yard. Two cowboys helped Sleepy rope Spot Easton, and then all eyes
turned to the two women in the wagon.
“Lonesome Lee, here’s yore daughter!” called Mrs. Snow.
Lonesome went slowly out to the wagon to meet Jane and held up his arms
to her. The crowd watched them silently.
“I been waitin’ for you, Jane,” said Lonesome slowly as she climbed
down over the wheel.
He held her in his arms for a moment and turned to the crowd.
“Hashknife, I want you to meet my daughter; you and Sleepy Stevens.”
“Why, I know them!” exclaimed Jane. “They ----”
“Know us?” grinned Sleepy. “My ----, I sung all night to her once.”
A grizzled cowman leaned over the shoulder of his horse and said to
Hashknife--
“You can prove all the things you said?”
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. “I sure can.”
“What about him?”
The man pointed at Blackwood, who stood beside the porch, guarded by
another cowboy.
“Him?” Hashknife squinted at Blackwood seriously. “Pardner, I--I dunno.
He kept out of this. He admits that he mis-branded calves for Easton,
and we could likely send him--” Hashknife shook his head slowly.
“Lookin’ at it from a cold-blooded angle, suppose we give him his horse
and tell him to git to ---- out of here.”
“But he’s a rustler!” exclaimed another cowman.
“That’s a fact,” nodded Hashknife. “That sure is a fact. He admits it,
don’t he?”
Hashknife looked around at his listeners.
“How many of us would admit the truth?”
Somewhere in the crowd a man laughed and smiles began to appear.
Hashknife had won his point. He turned to Blackwood, who could scarcely
believe his ears.
“Blackwood, you’re free to drift. I ain’t preachin’ to you, but kinda
remember what might ’a’ happened.”
“You mean--” Blackwood licked his dry lips. “You mean, I’m free
to--go?”
“You’ve got good ears, old-timer.”
Blackwood swung into his saddle, looked at Hashknife for several
moments as though wanting to say something, but was unable to begin.
Then as he turned slowly and rode out of the yard, unbelieving that any
man or men could be so generous.
The cattlemen roped Easton to a horse, picked up Doc Clevis and Jake
Blue, and strung out in a long cavalcade toward town.
“What happened here?” asked Jane wonderingly.
“Well, ma’am,” said Hashknife slowly, looking back at the tumbled
tombstones, “you see, a front-yard ain’t no place for a cemetery, so we
held a meetin’ today to start a new one some’ers else.”
“And that ain’t such a big lie, at that,” said Mrs. Frosty Snow slowly.
Then to Lonesome and Jane, she said:
“Pile in here and go back to the ranch for supper with me. I hope that
danged Swede cook don’t take the things to heart that I told him today,
’cause I need him for one more meal. You fellers better come along,
too, ’cause I want you to tell me all about it.”
“Please do,” Jane pleaded. “Perhaps Mr. Stevens will sing for us.”
Mrs. Frosty Snow turned the team around and headed for the gate, while
Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton stood together and watched them disappear
around the bend. Hashknife went over to the porch and kicked loose the
pegs and broken wires.
“Do we go over to Snow’s to supper?” asked Sleepy.
“Uh-huh,” grunted Hashknife. “I’d like to get used to Jane Lee, ’cause
she’s sure as ---- got a wide streak of humor in her system. You goin’,
Skelton?”
“After what you’ve done for me? My ----, I’d even do a little singin’
m’self, Hashknife.”
“Thassall right,” said Hashknife hastily as he wound a handkerchief
around his scored forearm, where Hagen’s bullet had left its mark.
“Your appreciation is accepted--but don’t sing. There’s such a thing as
carryin’ humor to excess, Skelton.”
Skelton grinned widely and put his hand on Hashknife’s shoulder.
“Cowboy, you shore made history in Lodge-Pole County today, and jist t’
show you how much I appreciates it, I’m splittin’ the 33 into three
parts right now. From this here date, me and you and Sleepy own this
place. No arguments a-tall--no sir. She ain’t worth a ---- of a lot for
cows, but if there’s a gold mine--anyway, we’re pardners; the three of
us.”
Hashknife looked closely at the old man and at Sleepy, who was busily
rolling a cigaret. It was very quiet now. A string of dusty-looking
cattle were coming down past the corner of the ranch-house fence,
heading for the creek.
A magpie flew past the house, swerved sharply at sight of the three
men, and perched on a corner of the corral, scolding earnestly. Fleecy
clouds flecked the blue sky beyond the timbered ridges; from the
hillside came the whistling bark of a ground-squirrel; down in the
willows a cow bawled softly for her calf.